


Where We Will (we'll roam)

by SpinnerDolphin



Series: Angel Network [7]
Category: Murder Mysteries - Neil Gaiman, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: (kind of), Flashbacks, Gen, Raguel telling stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26656582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpinnerDolphin/pseuds/SpinnerDolphin
Summary: Something bad wakes Raguel in the middle of the night. He runs from LA--and finds himself on a cargo ship, bound for China. Lucifer trades in favors; Raguel trades in stories. Raguel tells the crew the tale of the time he ran with Jack Sparrow.
Relationships: Past Raguel/OC
Series: Angel Network [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1364311
Comments: 164
Kudos: 296





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME BACK!! I was supposed to post in October. I got impatient. If you're new, hi!! 
> 
> If you're new: the first part of this story relates back to the rest of this series, and will be confusing, but if you get past it to Raguel's actual story you'll be fine. 
> 
> If you're returning: HELLO HELLO and welcome to the smallest drop of continuation of that cliffhanger last time :D My bad? 
> 
> FAIR WARNING: We're talking Caribbean in the 1700s. There are slaves in this story, though they don't stay that way. There's also violence in this story, but not more than in Pirates of the Caribbean. 
> 
> ALSO!! VERY IMPORTANT!! There is a wink and a nod to the fabulous [ feartheviolas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feartheviolas/pseuds/feartheviolas) and her awesome [ Pirates of the North Sea ](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638553) series in this fic. See if you can spot it, or if not, go check out her series!!!! 
> 
> NOW!! ON WITH THE SHOW!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone knows Nauatl, please feel free to correct me. I did a bunch of research on the Aztecs and their language. Nauatl is GORGOUS, and grammatically really cool, just from my tiny amount of research.

It woke Raguel in the middle of the night, the rage.

He exhaled sharply, heart pounding like a human. His Hellhound, Companion, sat up, his bright blue eyes nearly glowing in the dark. He whined.

There were three more dogs around the room. Buster made a sad sound, and the others tossed and turned, dreams turned wicked and frightening. Raguel tried to slow his heart – should be easy, but it wasn’t. He exhaled. “It’s alright,” he told them. “We’re all alright.”

Compy inched closer, and Raguel let him. He was some kind of mix, not like the purebred Hellhounds that followed Crowley and Chloe about. Companion was small by nature, but upon receiving his Name he’d shrunk even more, fur going from wiry to soft and curly, brown and white. He looked like he _might_ have some Havananese in him, though of course that was just appearance. Compy was Hellhound through and through, and a scrappy one.

“You’re a good boy,” he whispered. Compy snuggled closer. He was the best gift Crowley could have given him, Raguel thought, hugging him. 

Outside, a lone car passed, lighting the room briefly. Raguel stared at the ceiling. He wasn’t cold, but there was a knot of icy dread in his stomach.

That was Zephkiel, he thought. It was God[1]. He hugged his dog just a little tighter, and Compy whined.

He could feel God’s wrath, always. The Flood, the Tower of Babel, Sodom. These things happened here, and in other universes, at different times. He always knew when they did. They gave him dreams. But this time—this was singular, and focused. Somewhere, something had not gone according to Plan.

“You’ve left blood on Your instruments,” Raguel whispered, feeling it drip, phantom, from his hands, from his hair, from the last direct order like this. If he'd had wings still, the joints might bleed from an order this strong, this furious. “I am too tired, Lord. Please don’t make me do it again.”

The feel of Zachariah pulling out the muscles from his wings, one by one, sent a shudder down his spine. “I don’t want to do it,” Raguel whispered, squeezing his eyes closed.

But Zephkiel, the wingless angel who was God, was not accustomed to taking suggestions. Frankly, He probably wasn’t even consciously calling on Raguel. But the names pulled on his heart: an order from Him Above. Raguel was required to seek Vengeance on behalf of his Lord. The world went a little gray. 

Sam and Dean Winchester. The angel Castiel. The Nephilim Jack Kline, who Raguel had thought was already dead. He would wreak Vengeance Upon Them. 

It almost pulled him under.

Almost.

But the last names in that list were Chloe Decker and Trixie Espinoza, and with that, Raguel buried his face into Compy’s fur.

Chloe Decker? Who cooked him nice meals sometimes, and her little girl, who played with the dogs? They were innocent of any wrongdoing. It was Amenadiel, and God Himself, who made them the way that they were. Surely that counted for something?

God wasn’t listening. He didn’t care. He wasn’t even paying attention. And that was the only reason that Raguel got away with what he did next.

“Companion,” he whispered. “I need you to deliver a letter to Lucifer Morningstar, and then I need you to come find me. I’m taking the first cargo ship out to China that I can find. I’m giving her a head start. Do you understand?”

Compy looked at him and wuffled softly. He nodded.

“I can’t take the other dogs,” Raguel whispered. “Tell Lucifer to find a home for them?”

Compy wuffled again. He licked Raguel’s cheek, a promise.

“Good boy,” Raguel whispered. “Good boy.”

Getting out of bed was easy. Writing the letter to Lucifer was hard, and packing his bag was hard, too. Heading to the ports, instead of Chloe’s house—the hardest. He nearly drove Crowley’s car[2] into a light post more than once, but he made it to the nearest port.

Someone let him on the first ship to China. Raguel was fairly certain that his eyes were glowing silver at that point, and he wasn’t thinking very clearly. He really hoped that he wouldn’t murder the crew. He hid himself as far down as he could, in the ship. He told himself that he owed the captain a story, in exchange. He told himself a lot of things. Belowdecks was dark—except for the silver glow coming from Raguel’s hands. He whimpered and curled up small, and silently begged the captain to cast off.

The captain did not cast off. The captain did not cast off until well into the next day, when Companion found him, claws skittering on the steel of the ship. He leaped right into Raguel’s arms, and Raguel let out a breath and held him close. Some of the silver faded from his fingertips. He was terribly glad to see his dog.

“I will not kill Chloe Decker,” he murmured. Around them, the boat shuddered as the engine roared to life. “I will not. I won’t hurt Trixie Espinoza. They haven’t done anything. I won’t do it. _I won’t_. He’ll have to burn me up, first.”

Companion whined and licked his cheek, the faint reek of sulfur on his breath, as always. He was a good dog.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” murmured Raguel. “I don’t care. I’m finished being the Instrument of God. I’m finished, I’m finished, I’m finished. Aziraphale, can you hear me? I’ve been _Called!_ ”

Aziraphale did not answer. He was probably asleep with that demon of his – who knew what time it was in England. The loneliness washed over Raguel like the tide, and with it, his Function. He hugged his dog to his chest, and Compy obligingly radiated heat as only a Hellhound could.

“I love you,” Raguel whispered into the soft, curly hair, fighting it. “I love you. I am more than the sum of my parts and I love you, Compy.” Linda had taught him that, lovely, kind Linda, who had helped him learn who he was, beyond his terrible Function. The loss of her stabbed at him, but she had helped him prepare for that too, clever lady. Of them all, Raguel had the hardest time dealing with his humans’ mortality. She had been preparing him for it; those preparations came in handy, even though she was still alive.

 _Even when I’m gone,_ she’d told him kindly, _when we’re all gone and lost, you’ll remember, won’t you, Raguel?_ She’d smiled. _I promise you now, when I’m dead and gone, I’ll still be with you. Just remember me, and I’ll be with you. And the same goes for your lost family, right? Just remember them. They’re still with you. And they’ll love you forever._

His family. His family. He squeezed his eyes closed, hugged his dog, and he recalled them, one by one, name by name, vivid and not flinching for the first time in centuries.

Atl, who found him homeless beside one of the great shining Aztec pyramids. He would not hear Raguel’s excuses: he took him home, laughing and laughing, always laughing. Zyanya, his wife, who made warm food, and delighted in Raguel’s stories. He’d fallen in love with them so fast, so hard, his breath had nearly left his lungs. He had never felt love like that.

Nentel, their daughter, had loved to sing. She’d sung him to sleep, on more than one occasion, braiding his hair and giggling. Her three elder brothers – two killed in battle before he really knew them, breaking his heart, but the last, Cotoyl, marrying far too young.

“Relax, Raguel,” he’d laughed, full of joy as always. “I’m in love!” and he’d grabbed Raguel by the hands and pulled him into a playful dance, singing light and beautiful, as they all did. Cotoyl and his wife had six children, none of whom Raguel had met for sixteen long years, because Cotoyl had become a farmer outside of the city. Raguel had stayed behind with Atl and Zyanya, and watched Nentel marry and give birth to not one but eight children, with her terrible, alcoholic husband that he wanted to smite, though she hardly seemed bothered.

“He doesn’t beat me,” she’d shrugged. “And he has his moments. His only crime is that he is useless. I have my business and my children. We are alright, godling, I promise.”

They’d called him a godling. It was as close as they could get to understanding that he was an angel. Oh, how he’d loved them.

And then Cotoyl had returned, wife and six children in tow, and oh, the eldest—

Tlalli, with her long flowing hair. Too young, Raguel had thought, so embarrassed to be feeling human desire, for his family no less, never mind that he had not known her as a child, that he’d fled from her for a solid year. Too young.

She’d cornered him on her seventeenth birthday and kissed him, soft and sweet and he was lost. Seventeen was marriageable age, for an Aztec woman.

He’d been just like Lucifer. He’d followed her everywhere, watched her weave, helped her put together an idea for a business, as was habitual for an Aztec woman. For the first time since the Fall, he sang, because she’d wanted him to. He’d told her of Zachariah, even, and wept on her shoulder, long pent up grief for the loss of his wings.

“Vengeance of the Lord, you are a warrior,” she had told him kindly, and it was a great complement, from an Aztec. “But I think you must also learn to be your own man. The Vengeance of Raguel.” She’d smiled. He’d loved her so.

He thought of her, of her warmth and sweetness and her spine of pure steel, as that great cargo ship dragged itself away from California. His darling, wonderful human. There was always one who was special.

He didn’t think of her, aged ninety-three and holding a knife, slaughtered by Conquistadors. That was not what he needed from this memory, he told himself, firmly. He needed comfort. He needed grounding. He needed to be the Vengeance of Raguel, whatever that meant, and no one else.

He focused, hard enough to hear her voice. “Netsonkuilistli uikpa Raguel,” she had whispered _. Revenge for Raguel._ It was a beautiful language, Nauatl.

“Nimitstlasohtla,” he whispered to Compy. “Nimitstlasohtla.” It meant _I love you_.

And the silver faded from his fingers, from his eyes. The constriction around his heart eased, by slow, creeping degrees. He knew at his core that California had disappeared from the horizon, because the last band around his heart loosened. Slowly, he relaxed his grip on his dog. 

Companion whined and licked his cheek, giving him a face full of sulfur. Raguel smiled and pushed his head away, gently.

“Thanks,” he told his dog quietly. He swallowed. “I think I owe the captain a story, at the very least,” he added.

Compy wagged his tail cheerfully. Raguel tousled his fluffy ears. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Let’s go up and meet him for real.”

He took a deep breath and got himself to his feet. Companion wuffled at his side, wagging his curly tail. Raguel scooped him into his arms and climbed up the wicked, metal stairs of the ship, up to the deck.

Night had fallen, up top. Raguel breathed deep of the sea air and held Tlalli close to his heart, to banish the silver light that threatened to overtake him. After a moment, he put down his dog, and Compy followed him gamely to the stern of the ship. Raguel had ridden aboard cargo ships many times. He’d even lived on one, in the early 1900s, just before the Great War broke out. Of course, times had changed, and so had ships.

It took a bit of walking to find the Officer’s Saloon. This was a good thing—it gave him time to think. Raguel traded in stories the way Lucifer traded in favors. They weren’t in as high a demand, so this had to be a good one.

Pirates, Raguel thought as he pushed open the door to the Saloon. Perhaps they would like to hear a story about pirates. 

The place went quiet as Raguel walked through. It wasn’t an officer’s saloon, he thought with some surprise—it was the whole crew, sat at various decent-quality round tables. The men came from all over the Pacific, at a glance.

Raguel cleared his throat.

“Finally made your way out of the boiler room, did you?” The captain was a thin man, with tanned skin and dark hair. Raguel recognized him vaguely. He’d seen him when he’d stowed away half-conscious with God’s Rage. Now, Raguel looked at him critically: Filipino, he thought, judging by the accent. He spoke Spanish, a hint of another language, a creole, in the cadence of his words. It was that whisper of a creole that was his saving grace: Raguel didn’t like Spanish, even to this day. It reminded him of Cortez.

“I made my way out eventually,” Raguel said, also in Spanish, though it was bitter on his tongue. “I always do. I wanted to apologize for stowing away; I needed to get away quickly.”

“A criminal, are you?” asked the captain sharply[3].

“Just the opposite,” said Raguel with a tight smile. “I haven’t money to give you, but if you’ll let me, I can keep you and your men entertained for the entirety of your voyage. I’m a storyteller.”

The captain huffed. “A storyteller stowaway? That’s a new one. You’ve picked the wrong ship, Storyteller; we have a long, long journey ahead.”

Raguel shrugged. “I tell long stories,” he said. The men around him chortled and chuckled darkly.

“Well, I can hardly throw you overboard,” said the captain, amused. He sat back down and kicked out a chair for Raguel. “Go on, then. Tell us your story.”

Raguel sat in the chair, and Companion laid at his feet. He looked at the captain’s amused face, at the men all around, some ignoring him, some ready to deride him. That was funny. Raguel had a knack for stories; he knew how to make them compelling. It was learned behavior, not innate, but learned over thousands and thousands of years—a skill like that had a kind of magic to it in and of itself.

He liked this part, the start, where they didn’t believe him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began.

______________________

[1] God had many names. Zephkiel was what He had called Himself when He was trying to pose as an angel, though He had no wings. Raguel had figured it out, of course, before he was banished. If the rumors were true, God went by Chuck, these days.

[2] The Wrong Bentley. It was a fine car, in truth - 1973 T-series, black – that Crowley had acquired for running around in LA. He mostly turned up his nose and called it _modern,_ which it was in comparison to his beautiful 1926 model. When he was in England, he left the T-series Bentley with Raguel.

[3] Stowaways were a problem in the shipping industry. The captain knew this. Yet something – read: Raguel’s tattered, desperate willpower, entirely unconscious – had convinced him to allow this one. But he couldn’t permit a criminal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK I'M IMPATIENT OKAY. HAVE ANOTHER CHAPTER. Extremely brief mention of suicide here. If this is bad for you, skip footnote #1.

“I—had a family once, and I loved them. I stayed with them for three generations, and they were murdered, all, by an evil man. I watched him do it, and though I tried to fight back, I failed. My family’s blood was on my hands, and I spiraled, rapidly, down into a depression so deep and dark that not even the brightest light could hope to bring me out. In the years afterwards, I drifted, aimless, hopeless, and caught in a web of sorrow of my own making. Though I drifted with the wind, I had never felt more imprisoned then I did in those days. This is the story of how I began to fight myself free.” He smiled fondly. Such a long time spent with Linda; this introduction only pinched, where once it would have blazed with pain. It was a victory. “How much do you know about pirates, sir?”

The captain chuckled. “Tabari’s lucky day, isn’t it?” This was in English, directed to a skinny black fellow, clearly American, whose eyes lit.

“I study seventeenth century pirates in college,” the young man said, though he said it in Spanish. He couldn’t have been more than twenty.

“Perfect,” said Raguel. “I drifted in those days, and I found myself in the Caribbean, on island after island. Finally, I ended up in Nevis, where I met Jack Sparrow in a tavern, in the midst of a French invasion.”

The young man’s eyes went wide as saucers, and even the other men started whispering. Captain Jack Sparrow was a legend among sailors, albeit a somewhat ridiculous one. “Impossible!” he blurted.

“You heard me,” said Raguel, smiling wryly. “I was drinking, rather heavily, while the world burned around me. The French soldiers, you see, were not kind. It felt—fitting. It was not my first invasion, after all. I couldn’t bring myself to care about the fact that the tavern itself was, in fact, on fire.

Now Sparrow, he had a problem. The island was on fire and surrounded by French ships; there was no way for him to escape. They even had his ship in the dock. He was quite trapped, and old Jack never reacted well to being trapped.” He chuckled.

“That’s impossible,” breathed Tabari, now in English, eyes huge. “That was hundreds of years ago—”

“Do you want to hear the story or not?” Raguel asked him in Spanish, amused.

“I do!” said Tabari in Spanish now, amidst complaints from the others for him to shut up. He hesitated. “Was it the Black Pearl?” he asked, hushed, as though he could hardly dare to believe it.

“No, lad,” Raguel said kindly. “This was some years before he got the Pearl back. His ship was just a little sloop tied up in a dock somewhere. He was not overly attached. He found me drinking as everything burned, and he sat across from me.” He chuckled. “The fire in the tavern was growing. I felt completely consumed by my own sorrow, like it was eating me the way the flames ate the building.”

“’Not runnin’?’ he asked me, and I looked at him and didn’t care. He had dreadlocks, and something shining and gold in his hair; he reminded me of the Aztecs, and the Spaniards who murdered them. I hated him on sight, just for that.

‘No point,’ I said. Behind me, something cracked and crashed. He flinched and took a gulp of his rum.

‘As—fascinating—as your nonchalant attitude toward death seems from across the room, from up close it does seem a mite—suicidal.’

He was scheming, of course, but suicide wasn’t really an option for me[1]. ‘No point,’ I said again. I’d survive the collapse of a burning building, after all. The whole world had long ago closed in on me. There were days I felt like I couldn’t even see the sky anymore, because my family was gone.

‘Yes, well, I have need of a man fearless enough to sit in a burning building without blinking. What do you say, mate? I save your life and you indenture yourself to me?’

‘Nice try,’ I said, dull. ‘No indenturing.’

Something else went up in flames behind me. His eyes were on it, instead of my face. ‘You must want something.’”

He was right. I did. I wanted lots of things. I wanted my family back. More realistically, I wanted to be as far away from South America, from the Spanish colonies, from my crushing sorrow, as possible. When I told him that I wanted to be elsewhere, he smiled with gold teeth.

‘There we are,’ he said. ‘I can promise you passage to the British Colonies in the north. Carolina, though I won’t sail past Cape Hatteras, savvy? We have a deal?’

We did, because I didn’t much care about what I did next. He shooed me out of the burning building, and then immediately pulled me to a side street. As we left, the roof collapsed, sending sparks into the blazing night sky.

He pulled me behind a building across the street. A phalanx of French navy men marched by, their bayonets at the ready. I watched them dispassionately.

He poked me. “So, here’s the plan,” he said, “The Frenchmen took my ship. Now I don’t much care for her, but I do care for a certain wooden compass that sits belowdecks. You go in there and fetch it, and bring it back to me. After that, we’ll commandeer a new ship, and I can send you on your merry way in the Carolinas, savvy?”

It seemed a lot of effort for a compass, but I didn’t care about anything, those days, so I shrugged at him.”

“His compass?” Tabari blurted in English, interrupting him. The other men in the room groaned and protested. “Really his compass?”

“What about it?” Raguel asked, also in English.

“There’s all kinds of stories about Jack Sparrow’s compass! They say it didn’t point north.”

Raguel chuckled. “No. It pointed to whatever you most desired at the time.” He’d never asked Lucifer about that compass. He probably should. He’d bet _tlacocohualoni_ _ **[2]**_ that Lucifer had made it, somehow.

The kid sat back, eyes huge. “But that’s impossible.”

Raguel chuckled. He continued in English, “You know what they say. There are more things in Heaven and Earth. Anyway, if I’d had any curiosity left in me it would be to wonder why he didn’t want to steal his old ship back from the French.” There were several sounds of dismay on the ship; apparently the only language they all had in common was Spanish. Why, oh why did it have to be Spanish? He sighed and reminded himself that wasn’t their fault that Cortez murdered everyone Raguel had loved. He steeled himself and switched back to Spanish. “This became apparent fairly shortly – Jack didn't want his old ship because it was riddled with holes and, like the rest of the island, also on fire. I turned to Sparrow and gave him a look.

‘Fearless enough to sit in a burning building, savvy?’ he said, and made a shooing motion with his hands.

I sighed.

The sloop was poorly guarded because it was on fire. I walked right onto it. The French soldiers barely tried to stop me – I didn’t register them much anyway.

The ship was small, from what I could tell – a racing boat, obviously stolen, because what pirate would have a racing boat? That was all the detail I got, though, because the flames were so thick. The sails had burned off already, and the mast was cracked and ashy black; it was moments away from collapsing. The deck was so hot it burned the soles of my shoes. I walked through it all, uncaring.

Belowdecks was cramped and hot and filled with smoke. Flames licked along the walls. I didn’t cough, but I wondered what Sparrow had seen in me, that told him I could do this.

Of course, I _could_ do this. But that he’d known it at a glance was odd.

The compass had fallen under a little table. I scooped it up and put out an ember in one corner with my thumb, and then clambered back up the ladder, back to the deck. I hopped back ashore just as the boom cracked and collapsed under the teeth of the fire. The French navy men watched me walk off, stunned.

I found Sparrow hiding in somebody’s cellar. She was a young maid, and very confused, though she pointed me down the stairs. Jack had that effect on people; he talked them in swift circles until they acquiesced, just to stop the barrage of nonsense. He didn’t do it much with me, though. I think he knew that I’d do as he’d asked without convincing, and I tended not to ask him awkward questions.

He looked up as I descended to the cellar.

‘Quick run, then?’ he asked. Wordlessly, I tossed him the compass.

He caught it and then yelped, tossing it from hand to hand. ‘Hot-hot-hot!’ he hissed. I hadn’t noticed.

‘You’ll sail me to Carolina,’ I said.

Jack tossed the compass hand to hand some more, like a hot potato, blustering and huffing over its temperature. I waited silently.

‘Yes— _yes_ —’ he managed at last, exasperated. ‘Man of my word, aren’t I?’

‘Pirate,’ I told him, wry.

He quirked an odd smile, stilling his silly juggling. ‘Fair point.’ He cocked his head at me curiously, looking me up and down.

There’s a man in London called Sherlock Holmes. His friend John Watson writes a blog about him—have you heard of him? He’s very sanctimonious, and he talks about deduction as if he’d invented it. He didn’t. Jack could do it too, and he wasn’t as showy about it. He was showy about everything else, but the deduction he kept close to his chest—mostly. It was how he knew I could walk through fire, and how he knew I was more than I seemed.

‘Interesting,’ Jack said, eyes fixed on me. ‘Very interesting. I’ll get you to Carolina, don’t you worry, mate. You and me, we’re going to commandeer ourselves a new ship, a better ship, and sail out there. There’s gold to be had in America, so I hear.’

‘Slave gold,’ I said bitterly.

‘They mine gold and silver down south, mate,’ he said. ‘Brazil. Slave cotton’s what’s in the Carolinas.’

It seemed to me that slavery was everywhere in those days, terrible and heart wrenching. It was what had happened to the remaining people of Tenochtitlan, after my family was murdered. Jack looked at me harder, eyes flicking all over my face, reading something I couldn’t imagine. He didn’t posture or flutter. He knew I wasn’t human; I was sure of it. He tilted his head like the bird of his name.

With a grimace, clearly knowing he was opening a can of worms, he asked, ‘Who did you lose?’

‘My family,’ I told him. ‘To the Spanish.’

‘No stopping in Florida, then,’ he murmured. He waited for me to elaborate. I didn’t.

‘Not much of a talker, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Alright then,’ he said, ‘What say you to a commandeered ship? Sea air will clear your head.’ He waited for a beat, still eyeing me, this time rather doubtfully. ‘Hopefully.’

‘I don’t care,’ I told him honestly.

‘Well, I figured that.’ He opened up the compass and watched the needle quiver and spin. Apparently it had cooled, since he'd stopped wincing. He snapped it shut. ‘This way.’”

Raguel paused for a rest he didn’t need. He closed his eyes an took a deep sad breath, thinking of Jack and his glinting, mischievous smile, his fluttering hands. He hadn’t quite made his way to Raguel’s heart, but he’d gotten close, and he was fondly remembered. Compy still had his soft brown paws on his knees, and Raguel scratched his fluffy ears. Around him, the crew was watching, wide eyes.

“Did you steal a ship?” asked the captain, softly, spellbound. Raguel had been told his stories had that effect.

“Oh yes,” he chuckled. “A pretty little French thing, called the _Railleuse_. We took her while the soldiers were distracted from all the fighting, and we sailed off into the night.”

“He got you to Carolina?” asked Tabari, in Spanish this time.

Raguel smiled at him. “Eventually. We stopped at St. Eustace along the way, and that was how Jack sucked me in. We came about just outside one of the bays, and found ourselves a merchant ship, limping into shore. She was badly damaged, like she’d just barely gotten away from pirates.

‘Well then!’ called Jack, fierce and angry; he knew something about that ship at first glance, something that I didn’t. ‘What do you say?’ His eyes shone like a pirate’s. He was asking me to sack that merchant ship.

‘I can’t kill anyone,’ I told him, wearily. I had no idea how we would manage. It was a big ship, and there were only two of us.

‘Then free us our crew, savvy?’ His teeth glinted in the sunlight. ‘Weigh anchor.’

I still had no idea what he was talking about. What crew? I didn’t even know until he urged me off the deck and into the water, and together we swam out to the limping ship. But once we got closer, I saw their flag and realized: the ship belonged to the Dutch West India Company. Of course. Merchant ships traveled with a little bit of everything – including human cargo.

Jack was clever. He was a pirate, and he knew people. I realized this later: this was a deliberate tug on my heart, and he was hoping the rescued slaves would be so grateful they would stay on as crew. He was half right; it did tug on my heart. But the men we rescued were, generally speaking, far smarter than I was.

A dark skinned boy was looking out one of the ship's windows at me. He was maybe thirteen. He could have been one of my family’s children. My heart hardened, and I saw my lost world in that boy. Determined, I swam faster, and I followed Jack to the stern of the ship.

\---------------------------

[1] For all his desperate depression, even at his lowest point Raguel was never suicidal. The Empty, that place beyond, where angels went when they died—it was too frightening for him to actively desire death.

[2] Money or currency for buying something. The author recommends that the reader look up Nahuatl, the Aztec language, because it is incredibly beautiful. If anyone has a correction or a better word, please leave a comment and let me know!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. YOU GUYS. I am having very, very absurd internet problems that involve a useless super, a tex-mex restaurant, a very confused man from the cable company and probably a small army of mice. Comment replies may be slow. *facepalm*

Jack and I climbed up the back of the ship, quiet and easy. He directed me down to the hold, and I went. He must have had a plan for the crew, but I stuck to what he’d told me. Talking and sacking were Jack’s forte, not mine.

I am, however, far stronger than I look. I knocked out both guards, and anyone else in my path. I had no idea what Jack was doing up top.

This was not solely a slave ship, of course. These people were not straight from Africa; they were lighter than their ancestors, having endured a generation or two enslaved in America. They were men, and a few kids, sold to work at the plantations of St. Eustace. They were all locked in the hold, stinking and miserable.

‘I’m a pirate,’ I told them, flat. ‘You can join us if you like, but if not, we’ll set you free. Where are the keys?’

‘There,’ said one of the men, pointing. He looked afraid of me, but he wasn’t lying; the key ring hung across the way from them. ‘How many of you are there?’

‘Two,’ I said, scooping up the keys. ‘But one of them’s Jack Sparrow.’ I unlocked the door under their suspicious stares. No pirate in their right mind would set a slave free; slaves were worth a fortune, and they all knew it. Luckily, I was not in my right mind, and neither was Jack, though they didn’t know that yet.

‘Come on,’ I said, and though they all hesitated, they followed me warily up to the deck, where I hoped that Jack had done—something.”

“Did he?” asked Tabari eagerly.

Raguel chuckled. “Oh, yes. We reached the top to find the entire crew tied to one mast or the other, and Jack had hauled a great crate filled with food, and also indigo, from other islands, doubtless to be shipped back to wherever the ship was from. It was worth a fortune too, so Jack had piled it right on top of the food.

Jack took one look at me and beamed. ‘Excellent. Men! Ready the dinghy!’

Some of them men were broken enough to just go and do it, but one of the kids crossed his arms. He wasn’t the boy from the window, who was cowering behind a larger adult. He was older, though not by much, and his hair was shaved just a little too short, like they had been preparing him, rather carelessly, for shore. ‘I’m nobody’s slave,’ he declared, loudly. Behind us, one of the men dropped the dinghy on his toe and swore, shocked at the audacity. From where he stood, that position of uncertainty, that had been incredibly brave. Indeed, some of the sailors, tied to masts, jeered at him. His eyes were wide, afraid.

‘Aye, you’re not,’ said Jack, ignoring the men. He grinned with his glinting teeth, gold shining in the sun. ‘But are you a pirate, lad?’ He pulled out a knife from—somewhere—and offered it to the kid, hilt first[1].

The kid took the knife with a slow smile. ‘Yes,’ he said, and he stood up straighter. ‘Yes I am.’

‘Then ready the dinghy,’ said Jack, and he jumped to it.

I gave Jack a weird look. Pirates generally didn’t give things away, especially to strangers.

‘Never liked that knife,’ Jack mumbled to me. I rolled my eyes to him, because that was a terribly unconvincing lie, but said nothing.

Ten men and five kids readied the dinghies swiftly, under the jeers and the calls of the crew tied to the masts. It didn’t matter. We were away with our food, treasure, and crew long before the people on shore noticed. Jack had apparently not fired a single shot; I still have no idea how he managed it.

I helped row us back to our ship, alongside a fellow named Homer. Jack, of course, was useless, and he lounged smugly at the bow of the dinghy.

‘Is that our ship?’ asked the kid from before. He must have been about fifteen, and he was fiddling with Jack’s knife. He pointed to the _Railleuse,_ anchored and innocent looking just outside the bay. The other four kids were silent and wary. 

‘Yes,’ I grunted, pulling the oar.

‘My masters called me Christopher, but my mama called me Kit,’ he told me, nervous. “What’s your name?”

‘You’re askin’ for a beating, boy,’ growled another one of the men. ‘Just because they rescued you don’t mean they’re your friends.’ He eyed Jack.

‘Not friends,’ agreed Jack, ‘Not yet. Stay on as crew, then maybe. A man can always use friends, ain’t that right, Raguel?’

I huffed. ‘You can’t fool me, Jack Sparrow,’ I said. ‘And you can’t fool them, either.’ I turned back to the kid. ‘He’s a pirate. Trust him so long as your goals align. The moment they’re crosswise, watch your back.’ I hesitated. “My name’s Raguel,” I added, lamely. Jack had already said it, so it was kind of anticlimactic.

‘And you?’ asked one of the men. “What are your goals?”

‘I have no goals.’

‘Aye, old Rags here’s broken beyond repair,’ said Jack cheerfully. ‘Quite sad, really.’ He made a face that was probably supposed to be sad. It fell short by about sixteen nautical miles.

It didn’t hurt, even a little, much to my surprise. I rolled my eyes. Kit giggled.

“I want to stay!” he declared bravely.

Next to me, Homer groaned. “Aye, I’ll stay too,” he said, though he sounded dismayed. “Someone’s got to look after this little fool.” He slanted his eyes to Kit, but there was affection in his gaze. Homer was clearly not the boy’s father, but he had just as clearly taken him under his wing. There was a story there, I was certain.

“That’s the spirit!” cried Jack.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s an idiot,” I murmured to Kit, who giggled again. 

Amid Jack’s flailing and spluttering, we made our way back to our pretty _Railleuse_. At our urging, the men climbed aboard, save for myself and Kit. Above, Jack taught them how to haul the dinghy up with us inside. 

‘We’re really free?’ Kit asked me softly. He knew how much he was worth; he was no fool. It was idiocy, in those days, to free a slave. Like throwing money down a well. It was a good way to lose a small fortune.

Lucky for him, I actively hated money. Money was why the Spaniards had burned my city.

‘Yes,’ I told him as Jack and the men hauled us up. ‘Jack’s ridiculous, and you probably can’t trust him, but you can trust his motives.’ If you could figure them out, of course, but as Jack was always pretty straightforward with me, this didn't occur until later. 

Kit nodded to himself. He bit his lip, looked at me, then looked down. He didn’t trust me, not yet, and he was right not to, given the world he lived in. The eighteenth century was not kind, especially to black children. 

The men lowered us on the deck with a thump.

“So!” said Jack lightly. “Any man who wants to stay aboard gets his fair share – an even cut of our plunder. Any man who don’t, we sail to Tortuga and there he makes a life for himself, savvy?” He looked around at them, gathered on his deck. He grinned with gold teeth, and rather conspiratorially, he added, ‘What’s it gonna be—a life of adventure and gold beyond your dreams, or a homestead somewhere on an island, always lookin’ over your shoulder for a wretched European?”

If it had been ten years later, I would have offered them Haiti, but that rebellion hadn’t happened yet. At the time, Haiti was still miserable for slaves.

The men murmured amongst themselves. ‘You don’t have to decide now,’ I said. ‘We have the whole sail to Tortuga.’

Kit tapped my arm. ‘What’s in Tortuga?’

‘Pirate’s den,’ I told him. ‘No laws there at all.’

‘I’m staying with you,’ Kit said loudly, again, as if he were trying to reassure himself by repeating it.

‘Good man!’ said Jack. ‘What was your name?’

Kit eyed Jack suspiciously. Probably doubly so because it wasn’t like he hadn’t already told us his name. Jack probably hadn’t been paying attention because he was an ass. “I’m Kit,” he said.

‘Know anything about sailing, Kit?’ asked Jack, and he had him. The kid tripped after Jack, who was charismatic and cheerful and a surprisingly not-horrific teacher, as he led him about the ship, teaching him to hoist sails and whatnot. A small crowd of the other men followed, and soon Jack had them weighing anchor, and we were off to Tortuga.

‘What do you think, then?’ asked Homer, coming up alongside me. I suppose I’d acquired some amount of credibility, since I wasn’t Jack. I eyed him, flailing about at the bow of the ship like he was being attacked by a swarm of bees. Most of the men around him looked completely baffled.

‘Jack is the kindest pirate I have ever met,’ I told Homer honestly. ‘That’s not saying much. But he’s also the cleverest, and that _is_ saying something.’

Before us, Jack tripped on a plank and fell face first to the deck with a yelp. The men continued to look baffled, but Kit helped him up. I heard Jack ranting about halyards over the sounds of the wind filling our sails. 

Homer watched all this, looking skeptical. ‘It’s as good a recommendation as any,’ he said slowly. “What’s your story?’

‘I had a family in South America,’ I said, and it hurt and burned but this somehow felt like it was being cauterized, instead of bleeding. Like talking to this kind-eyed man was somehow helping. ‘The Spaniards murdered and enslaved them.’

Homer chuckled darkly. ‘I see. The Dutch did that to me and mine. I suppose we have that in common.’

‘Yes,’ I said, looking at him, really seeing a human soul, the beauty of it, how it shone in his eyes, for the first time in a long time. ‘I suppose we do.’

Homer stayed, though mostly to take care of little Kit, who was young enough to fling himself into a somewhat foolish decision. A few others stayed, too. We lost the other kids, and most of the men to Tortuga. It was likely they didn’t want to be under any man’s rule, even Jack’s. I couldn’t really blame them.

Jack picked up several more men from Tortuga, to fill in the gaps. Jack wasn’t fussy: the new men were from all over, freedmen and runaways, navy deserters and men of the sea, even one man from Thailand, though how he’d ended up in the Caribbean was a mystery. By that point, the ever-enthusiastic Kit was running in Jack’s wake, brightly promising gold beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. I think Jack secretly thought he was adorable, for all that he pretended to be exasperated. Kit _was_ adorable, after all. It was little wonder Homer was so attached to him. We all were. I found myself viscerally hating anyone who might force Kit to do anything he didn't want to do.

Visceral hatred for someone other than Cortez was new for me, especially on behalf of someone other than my long dead family. I didn’t really know what to do with it, besides sit with Homer some nights, drinking. Homer loved that boy more than anything. It was soothing. 

“His mama was a friend of mine,” he confided in me softly one night. “Just a friend, mind, but a good one. Like a sister to me. They sold her to another plantation. I promised I would look out for him. I don’t think piracy was what she had in mind, but,” and here he smiled, fierce, “If we can get back just a fraction of what the Dutch West India Company has taken from us, I think it’s worthwhile.”

I tapped my glass against his. I would have done the same to Cortez, if I had thought of it.

Eventually, we set out for Carolina, crew and ship and all. I had somehow found myself First Mate, with Kit attached at my hip and Homer keeping a sharp eye on us both from the shadows[2]. It wasn’t quite freedom, not yet, but it felt as though I had left some of my sorrow behind me at last.

Jack had sold the indigo in Tortuga, and he’d divided it evenly amongst the crew, as pirates did in those days. Kit was so excited he didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. Homer had pulled him to dance on the deck that night, soon joined by the others, song and laughter ringing to the sky. I sat beside Jack and I watched them. I felt too—detached, still, to join, but the watching was good in a way I couldn’t describe. There was still joy in the world, and still people I could care about. 

They found us at dawn.

The Dutch West India company didn’t give up a shipment, even one limping into port in St. Eustice. When they came upon us, they pounced like a tiger in the early morning light, and the battle was swift and brutal. They were privateers, not military, and they were after our crew as slaves and the gold from our indigo. Kit showed a great deal of ingenuity, hauling the boom this way and that so it slammed into the skulls of our invaders. Homer, as it turned out, was as fierce a fighter as I had ever seen. He’d purchased a cutlass with his share of the money in Tortuga. If he fought fair, he’d have been slain by the experienced privateers – so he didn’t fight fair. I saw him kill two men, at least, and wound many more.

Of course, I could not kill a man directly, but I knocked at least three overboard in the hopes that maybe the sharks or the current would get them. No such luck. 

They still overpowered us. Bound and chained, ourselves and our ship, they towed us to Curaçao, the Dutch slave port. If we reached that place, our crew would be taken and scattered to the four winds. Jack, pirate captain that he was, would be hung by the neck until dead – a short drop and a sudden stop, as they said in those days – and I—well. They would try to hang me. It would be awful for everyone involved.

We had to get free. The consequences otherwise were too terrible to contemplate. But I was no escape artist; that was Jack, and he looked stumped—for now.

But it was a long sail to Curaçao.

\------------------------------------

[1] This was actually bad luck. Knives given as gifts tend to stab the givers in the back, so the story went. Jack had stolen this knife, though, so he figured it wasn’t really his gift to give; the guy he’d grifted was the giver, savvy?

[2] Homer was no fool. He knew what happened to young boys on ships, especially a ship with a white captain and mate. But Raguel was kind and, as time passed, it became clear that even odd Jack Sparrow wouldn’t touch the boy in any way that would harm him. This was—baffling and somewhat hard to trust. He kept an eye on little Kit, just to be safe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIP OF THE HAT TO [ feartheviolas ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feartheviolas/pseuds/feartheviolas)! CAN YOU SPOT THE REFERENCE?? If not, go read her fabulous [ Pirates of the North Sea ](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638553)!!

That evening, Kit was weeping softly from below decks. He had a few cuts and scrapes, but I think he was more frightened than hurt, and who could blame him. Most of our crew were in chains. Jack and I, and those we had picked up in Tortuga with paler skin, were afforded a cell. The others were chained fast and could not even stand, even the fellow from Thailand, and the unfairness of it pulled my heart, some strange mixture of sorrow at the state of humanity and rage at their cruelty. We all had a guard on us, watching from the stairwell.

I watched Kit weep. He wasn’t mine, not yet, but it still wrenched something in me. Homer was chained too far to comfort him, and from the looks of it, it was tearing at his heart to see his charge so upset. James, the man next to Kit, was doing his best, but it wasn’t the same. Jack had picked James up from Tortuga. James was a hardened sailor and didn’t seem to know what to do with a frightened child. 

I looked at the bars of our cage. I could break them. But then what? I was outnumbered fifty to one, and there was no communicating this to Jack, not while that man was watching. Still, I looked to my captain, hoping for a plan.

Jack was watching the guard, quiet and calculating. I let him think.

‘Come all ye young fellows that follow the sea,’ I sang softly. We’d all sung this shanty the night before everything had gone to shit. The others knew the lyrics. 

Kit was still crying, but Homer understood what I was doing immediately. ‘Way, hey, blow the man down,’ he sang back, softly. The man at the door sniffed, but he let us sing. Small mercies.

‘Now please pay attention and listen to me,’ I murmured.

‘Way, hey, blow the man down,’ the others sang back, low and soft.

‘Oh,’ Jack breathed next to me, and as the crew sang the next, _way hey blow the man down!_ he murmured in my ear, ‘Well done, Raguel.’

That hadn’t actually been my intention, but it was a good idea as any: the singing covered anything Jack might say to me. I had just thought to lift everyone’s spirits. 

‘Ideas?’ I hissed at him as the men sang.

‘Working on it,’ he hissed at the next chorus, which meant _no ideas._ He looked around, as though an idea would just materialize out of thin air. The four other men in our cell rustled and sang restlessly.

‘What is that _racket?_ ’ A second guard thumped and thudded down the stairs, holding a torch. ‘You were just letting them scream?’ he spat at the first guard.

‘He started it,’ he said, pointing at me.

‘Just what I need,’ said the second guard with an unpleasant smile, ‘I hear Caesar’s off his feed: maybe fresh meat will help.’ He marched up to the cell and glared at Jack. ‘Step back.’

‘Might you be wanting to speak to the captain of this motley crew instead?’ Jack said hopefully. He swayed a little. He wasn’t protecting anyone; he was clearly looking for an angle.

‘Come out, and I’ll have you keelhauled,’ spat the guard, and Jack backed off, palms out. ‘You.’ the man pointed to me. ‘Out.’

Carefully, I stepped out. Somewhere behind me, Kit hiccoughed in terror. I followed the second guard out, and at my back, I could hear Jack telling Kit, ‘Alright, lad, alright. That’s enough,’ with far more gentleness than I would expect.

I followed the guard up the stairs and out onto the deck. Above, the sky was dark, but the stars were mostly blotted out by the torches the crew used to light the way for themselves. They jeered at me. Not a particularly kind place, this ship, I thought, though I said nothing. I wondered what had happened to the injured sailors, and who Caesar was.

The guard led me to what was unmistakably the captain’s quarters.

I thought, what a pity they hadn’t brought Jack. Surely Jack would find some leverage. I sighed, feeling sorry for myself, and went inside.

Inside was a lush room, painted a deep, expensive red and lit by candles scattered about the room. There was a four-poster bed to one side, and an enormous globe. There was also a desk, where a bald man sat, holding a pen. He was grinning at me.

But most striking was the cat.

There was an enormous cage to the side of the desk and pacing within it was a great Indochinese tiger. It looked at me out of deep sad eyes and I knew several things. First, that this was Caesar. Second, by the blood on the bars of the cage, that he had not only consumed the injured sailors, but this captain absolutely planned to feed me to him as well. Third, he was my ticket out. This was something Jack Sparrow could never do, I thought, my confidence rising. 

‘He is beautiful, isn’t he?’ drawled the man at the desk. He was clearly trying for intimidation, but I saw him for what he was: a small man, drunk on power. He liked his men and his slaves to fear him and his tiger. I knew the type. I was not impressed.

‘He is,’ I said. ‘Such a creature is not made for the sea.’ I could see that in the tiger’s eyes, too.

A tiger could not help being a maneater any more than a man could help needing to drink water. Clean water was clean water, and meat was meat, regardless of where it came from, especially if you were starving. The poor tiger was promising me allegiance, if only I would get him out. He’d clearly been screaming that to every deaf human that walked by. Lucky for him, I was not human.

I could hear those pleas, and I’d take that allegiance.

‘He is made for whatever I say he is made for,’ drawled the captain. He stood from his desk and paced over to me, eyes gleaming hungrily. ‘Much like you.’

I didn’t reply. I strolled over to the cage, nonchalant. I could practically feel the captain’s glee behind me, and the tiger’s hunger for revenge. Finally, I had a plan. It was terribly simple, too.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked. 

‘I am Captain Lucas de Jaager of the _Solvor,_ ’ said the Captain proudly. ‘And you, my friend?’ His voice oozed, smug. He was thrilled I was here. He was anticipating my screams, as Caesar devoured me. I was certain of it.

In any case, he had captured my crew. He would sell half of them like animals, and he would send Jack and the rest of them to the gallows. Both of these things, I thought furiously, were just as bad as feeding me to that poor tiger.

I reached out and closed my hand around the lock of the cage, bending it, warping it. ‘I am Raguel,’ I said, ‘and I am the Vengeance of the Lord.’ I yanked, hard, and the lock snapped, and the door flew open.

The tiger was out like a steam train, and the Captain’s scream was cut off, garbled. It was a loophole: I cannot kill a human, but a tiger certainly can.

‘You should not pen up wild things,’ I told the screaming Captain. “And you should not have hurt my crew.”

Three men, guards, pounded on the door. The tiger slashed open the Captain’s throat and then licked his lips, looking to me.

‘All the men in uniform are yours if you want them,’ I told him. ‘The others, and the one with the dreadlocks and gold in his hair—they are with me. Do not touch them, and I will set you free.’ I smiled a little, darkly.

The tiger huffed, and then fixed his eyes on the door, tail lashing. He definitely wanted those men. I could see it in his tensed muscles, his flexing claws. I fished the keys to the hold from the captain’s belt, and then I let the tiger out onto the torchlit deck.

The screaming followed me down to the dark hold. I spun the keyring around my fingers casually. I felt like whistling. That had been surprisingly easy. The arrogance of that man, to have kept a tiger on a ship, in a cage so small. It was hubris. Pure hubris. As an angel, it was practically my job to punish something like that.

Down below, I punched the guard, so he fell to the ground, unconscious. I took his torch. My chained crew watched me with huge eyes.

‘Color me impressed,’ Jack called from his cell, part of the crew gathered close behind him. I shrugged at him.

I unlocked Kit first. He sniffled, gulped, and hugged me tight. He was far too young for this, I thought, passing off the keys to James, chained next to him. James unlocked himself and passed around the keys to the others swiftly, unlocking their shackles. Finally, Homer, after determining that I was sufficiently comforting for poor Kit, let an indigent Jack out. The ones in the cell with him mostly rolled their eyes at Jack’s sputtering. Captains got freed first, apparently. I didn’t listen to him.

‘We need to get out of here, quickly,’ I told Jack. ‘Also, I made a new friend.’

Above decks, the tiger roared. Even through the ship's thick wooden deck above us, it was clear as anything, down in the hold.

Jack jerked back. He looked at the stairwell, and then he looked at me. He looked at the stairs again, and then to me. ‘And what manner of beastie _is_ your new friend?’

‘Captain de Jaager kept a pet tiger,’ I told him mildly. ‘He’s very angry. The tiger, I mean. The captain is very dead.’

‘Ah,’ said Jack. He swayed. ‘Well, let’s head back to our ship, before it gets to us, then, savvy?’ he said.

‘The tiger’s coming with us,’ I said.

‘The tiger’s what now?’ Jack spluttered.

I ignored him and led the way up to the deck.

The deck was a bloodbath. Broken bodies gasped and moaned, and the floor was slick and red. Caesar was gleefully trying to climb the mast, where three men huddled in the rigging.

‘Caesar!’ I called. The tiger looked at me. ‘Time to go.’

He galloped to my side. Kit gasped beside me. He’d probably never seen a tiger before, and Caesar was particularly beautiful, for all that he was on the skinny side. To a human, I imagine he would look vicious too, with the blood on his jaws. Mostly, I saw an abused animal.

We walked-- myself, my captain, my crew, and my tiger, down to where they’d tied our pretty _Railleuse_ to the _Solvor_. We scrambled aboard, even Caesar.

‘Hang on,’ I said, and dashed back into the hold of the _Solvor_. I returned with money to buy supplies, a mid-sized container of water, which I rolled in front of me, and three goats, should we need to feed the tiger for the next few days—at least until we dropped him off on land. Everyone else was too eager to get away – too frightened of Caesar – to pillage the _Solvor_ properly _._

After I got the goats and the water onto the _Railleuse_ , I looked up and saw that Caesar was sprawled panting on one side of the boat, and everyone else had migrated to the other side. The torchlight played beautifully off of Caesar's fur. It made the stripes comes alive with every breath. 

‘It’s alright,’ I told the crew. ‘We made a deal. He won’t hurt you.’

Jack edged past the tiger and sidled up to me, half-lit in the night. ‘Good kitty,’ he said nervously, and then added, to me in a hiss, ‘Have you completely lost your mind?’

‘This coming from you,’ I muttered. ‘It’s fine. We’ll drop him off in Aruba, that’s nearby, right?’ There were wild donkeys on Aruba, or so I had heard. Good prey for a tiger.

‘Day and a half's sail,’ Jack said faintly, eyeing the tiger. Caesar had flopped down to the deck. He fixed his golden gaze on Jack and licked his lips. Jack gulped audibly.

I shrugged and cut one of the ropes tying us to the _Solvor_. ‘Better get going, then,’ I said, and he scowled at me.

For the first time in a long time, I laughed.

It did indeed take a day and a half to get to Aruba. It was good that I had grabbed the water; the men needed it. The adventure came to a satisfying end, though, with Caesar racing off into the Aruban desert. As we sailed away that night after we picked up supplies, Jack found me sitting on the bowsprit, watching the waves and the stars and the horizon. The stars were the same as they had always been—the same stars I had seen in Tenochtitlan. I was still deciding if that felt like a small slice of home, or a knife to the gut. I was thinking about what home really meant, and if I defended this ship enough, if it would start to feel like mine, too.

Jack eyed me suspiciously, and I ignored him. To my surprise, he swung out and sat beside me, feet dangling over the dark waves.

‘That’s what I like about you, Rags,’ he said, as though we’d been having a conversation. In a way, we had been. ‘Honest ‘til the end, even if it’s completely senseless.’

‘I didn’t say anything,’ I said.

‘Didn’t have to,’ he replied, and then leaned back, looking at the stars. ‘Who killed them?’

He meant my family. He’d probably worked out that every time I went off on my own, even on the ship, I was mourning them. It wasn’t a difficult deduction. Even Kit had figured it out. ‘Spaniards,’ I muttered. He knew that, of course.

‘Now, now, Raguel. Who _really_ killed them?’ he drawled.

‘You won’t believe me,’ I said.

His eyes glinted in the starlight. ‘Try me.’

‘Cortez,’ I choked, aloud for the first time. ‘And his army. They were after gold.’

‘Cortez is two hundred years dead, mate,’ said Jack, but there was a strange note in his voice, almost smug. I didn’t reply. ‘So, I reckon,’ he added, looking away, ‘you’ve either found the Fountain of Youth, or you’re not human. Money’s on not human.’

I sighed. There was no point in lying. ‘I’m disgraced. I’m an angel.’ I thought to tell him of my wings, but the lump rose thick and fast in my throat, so I didn’t. I couldn’t.

‘That’s interesting,’ murmured Jack, and he didn’t even stumble over that revelation. ‘I was thinking siren, but that’s very interesting.’

‘I hardly have the skin for a siren,’ I told him, huffing. I spread my fingers, showing off how they were not webbed or scaled.

‘And not afraid of fire,’ Jack murmured. ‘Not here to save my soul, are you?’ He made a worried face. I huffed again.

‘No.’

‘Because it ain’t yours to save.’ He took a nervous sip from his flask.

‘Christendom has a lot to answer for, these days. Your soul is your own. Keep it.’ I sighed again.

He watched me, curious as a bird, but we sat in silence for a long while.

I could have fallen in love with him. I could have. But my heart was still scarred from my family, and I was yet so hurt that it was hard to breathe, sometimes. I was not ready to keep Jack, and anyway, Jack would never allow himself to be kept. He was not that sort of man. But he did have a gift for me, old Jack, one that I would treasure.

‘You have syphilis,’ I told him, after a long silence. His eyebrows jump—” Raguel paused. He blinked. Some of them men around him, including the Captain and Tabari, had nearly spat out their drinks. They were snickering. 

“What?” Raguel said, a little thrown.

“Please don’t tell me you’re carrying around Jack Sparrow’s syphilis,” chortled the Captain.

“What? No!” Raguel spluttered.

Giggles all around. “Sorry,” said the Captain. “Continue.”

Raguel glared. “‘You have syphilis,’ I told him,” and he paused for giggles, glaring some more, “And then I said, ‘I can’t heal you, but there’s ointments and things—mercury—that can help slow it down. I’m sorry I can’t fix it. My powers won’t—’ I held out my hand, palm up, and tried to conjure a light, but of course it didn’t work.

Carefully, he cupped my hand. He wore a sailor’s leather guard to protect his skin from the helm of the ship; it was rough against my knuckles. He tapped my palm with his callused finger, the way you might tap a malfunctioning lightbulb, though this was long before lightbulbs. He shook my hand back and forth, as if that would help. No light. ‘Well that’s unfortunate,’ he said.

I huffed a damp laugh.

‘You’ve walked through fire,’ he said. ‘You’re stronger than any man, and you convinced a man-eating beastie leave our crew alone. What makes this different?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said miserably.

‘They did a number on you, didn’t they?’ Jack asked. I was about to mention Cortez again, but then he said, ‘Those other angels.’

It struck home. I had no idea how he could possibly have known about that. He must have deduced it, somehow. I sucked in a breath and choked on it. The tears came thick and fast, and Jack caught one with his thumb. To my surprise, he rubbed it on the sore on his jaw. Those sores are a symptom of syphilis. My breath caught again as it noticeably shrank.

‘I know about the syphilis, mate. But thanks.’ He took another of my tears, and the sore nearly disappeared entirely.

I gave a weak laugh. ‘How did you--?’

‘Angel’s tears,’ he said. ‘Got a vial of them, once. Now I have a whole angel of them.’

Now I laughed for real, if a little damply, something heavy lifting from my heart. ‘You bastard,’ I said, awed; he’d just proved, matter of fact, that I did have some power left to me, small though it may be. It was a revelation. It was like getting a small piece of myself back, after having lost it for so long.

‘Pirate,’ Jack agreed. He settled into the bowsprit comfortably. ‘Now, tell me which angel is the worst one, so I know to avoid him.’

I laughed again, and though I couldn’t bear to tell him about the one who had torn out my wings, I did tell him about Sandalphon, the angel who smote Sodom and Gomorrah. 

Jack was at my side, the ship at my back and the endless, dark horizon stretched before me. It didn’t feel like home, I realized. Home was still back in Mexico, and it had burned to the ground. This felt like freedom. What I was feeling was freedom, like that great loss in Mexico had stopped crushing me for the first time in two hundred years. I sat back, and I told Jack about Sandalphon, and I laughed.”

Raguel sat back in his chair, and he patted his dog. Around him, the crew watched with wide eyes.

“Did you make it to Carolina?” asked Tabari.

“Eventually,” Raguel said. “We got chased by English privateers, later, and then French ones, and ended up back in the Caribbean. I think I stayed with Jack and that crew for about four years. We made good money pillaging plantations. Mostly, we stole indigo and sugar.” He scratched Compy’s ears and smiled. He’d come so close to adopting Jack.

“What happened?” asked the Captain.

“The ship went down,” Raguel sighed. “I got captured, but everyone else got away. That was what mattered. And I ended up in a jail in Carolina, anyway, so in a way Jack kept his word.”

He closed his eyes, remembered the wind in his hair. Like, but totally unlike, flying. Those years on the _Railleuse_ had given him a great gift, the first after Cortez had stolen everything from him. Jack had taken Raguel’s tears and was nearly rid of his syphilis entirely by the time they’d parted, giving Raguel back just a fraction of what it felt like to be a full angel. 

And Kit--

He took a breath and looked at the men around him thoughtfully. He could have that again, if they let him. Maybe there was even a human in this crowd worth adopting. None of them would be Jack or Kit, of course, or any of his Aztec darlings, but they would be just as good. Just as unique.

Companion barked. Raguel smiled down at him. He had his autonomy, after all. On shore, Him Above had demanded Raguel slay a woman and her child. He had refused, the most powerful statement an angel could make. It was Angel Network’s influence, and Linda, but it was also Kit from long ago, and Jack, and their refusal to be caged.

Raguel wouldn’t be caged either, he decided, abrupt and fierce. Not by God, not by anyone. He was nobody’s attack dog. He was going to run away, and Chloe Decker and her child would _live_. Jack and Kit and Homer had taught him all about freedom – he remembered. It was so long ago, but he remembered. Sometimes, you had to stand up, like Kit had that day, and choose freedom even if it was reckless. He had refused a direct order. That was his act of defiance. He was free, like he had been that night, sitting with Jack on that bowsprit, and learning he could still heal.

“If you let me stay,” he said softly, “I have more stories where that came from. What do you think?”

The captain chuckled. “Don’t have much of a choice now, do we? We’re miles from shore. Least you could do is tell us a few stories.”

Raguel smiled at him. “I can do that. What’s your name?”

“Captain Banoy, at your service,” he said, a little mockingly, and offered a hand.

On to the next adventure, Raguel thought, and he shook the man’s hand. The stars were the same as they had been that night on that bowsprit, and the sea was just as vast and dark. His smile widened. _Bring me that horizon!_

\---

_Lucifer,_

_God is seeking Vengeance on Chloe and Trixie. I can feel it. I don’t know what they could have possibly done to deserve that, but I’ve fled the country. I think I have a lid on it—for now. You mustn’t follow me. Please keep them safe. They’re only human._

_Raguel._

_PS – please find my dogs good homes. They’re all fosters and rescues. R._


End file.
